


ashes buried in my clothes

by cave_canem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, mentions of proust, nothing graphic at all, what he did to andrew is summed up in the word abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-18 02:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14203137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_canem/pseuds/cave_canem
Summary: Proust wounds up dead, when Andrew swore he'd kill him himself. It's a problem. Like most problems in Andrew's life, Neil is responsible.





	ashes buried in my clothes

The first time Andrew thinks Neil might be a problem, he’s not even high, beginning the fast descent back to reality. That makes it even worse.

Neil Josten is a prudent, guarded creature, with skittish eyes and too-closed lips. Andrew doesn’t get much from him in the beginning, and in his in-between state, he cares enough that it annoys him. He squashes the feeling as quickly as it came and takes his place next to Aaron; they’re dressed the same but otherwise so obviously different, like twin reflections that came alive, stepping out of the mirror.

It fools Josten, if only for a few minutes. It’s enough. Enough to start gauging him and, as much as Andrew is loathe to admit it, miscalculate the equation he is.

Something isn’t right, but it’s not until later that Andrew reaches the root of the problem, and numbers fall back into place with every truth Neil shares: contact lenses, a connection to the Moriyamas, a propension to run his mouth when he should keep it shut and to lie when the situation requires honesty.

Neil isn’t a math problem: he is too illogical for that. Andrew finds himself looking for an answer anyway, hooked and reeled in by a fishing line Neil doesn’t even know he holds.

It’s infuriating. It’s hilarious when it reaches his mind through the haze of the drugs. It’s the most self-destructive realization that comes with the brutal crash and the bite of alcohol.

Neil seems to know what to do and how to read Andrew better than most people, and the harsh curve of his mouth when he chokes around _nothing_ tells Andrew that the word tastes just as bitter for him.

Even worse; Neil blunders, sometimes, and pushes Andrew’s buttons until he’s dreaming of crushing that slender neck until his strong callused hands. In the end, he does reach up, because the drugs only make Andrew more dangerous in that they shatter his self-control.

To think is to act. Unfortunately for Andrew, he spends too much time in his own head.

He has enough sense, fuzzy as the world is through the barrier of meds and pain, to slide his armbands away before the police can arrive at the Hemmicks’. It’s a necessity. Sober, Andrew would have done the same, reluctantly. Drugged up to high heaven, it amuses him to flash the scarred skin of his arms to Neil. He takes pleasure in Neil’s urgent tone, the way he says Andrew’s name, like it’s the only word he can remember faced with the situation. 

Neil catches his wrist, and Andrew isn’t amused anymore.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, skin burning where he can feel the rough pad of Neil’s fingers on his ruined skin, “I’ll kill you.”

He can't shake off his smile. It makes Neil sick: he can see it, read it in his eyes under the criminally dark lenses. It’s one of Neil’s missteps; this whole endeavor is, too, in a way. Or maybe it’s Andrew’s, like Neil accuses him of, later.

Andrew isn’t interested in regret: finding someone to blame is a waste of time. After Easthaven, he isn’t interested in anything any longer. That might be a reprieve. It only leaves more room to the unmoving block of anger that rolls around his head, aggravated by Andrew’s perfect memory.

 _If you touch me, I’ll kill you_.

He said that to Proust, but the man kept going, uncaring of Andrew’s useless struggles. Abuse is an easy pastime for people in power; the drugs leaving his body keep Andrew is a weaker state still, always oscillating between extremes.

Maybe Andrew is getting repetitive with his promises, but he can afford to be: they’re not flimsy threats, born out of arrogance and desperation. It’s a certainty that walks out of Easthaven with Andrew: he’ll see Proust dead, like he wants to, and may anyone who stands in his way break on the edge of Andrew’s unflinching resolve.

Neil snatches that from him, too.

Andrew doesn’t talk to him for a whole day when the murder makes the news: doctor found dead in his car, wrapped around a tree on the side of the road.

How ironic.

The TV doesn’t speak about bullet holes in the windshield or in the tires; Andrew is sure they’re here.

He retires to the roof soon after the evening news, the journalist’s emotionless voice rolling around in his mind. He tries to tell himself he doesn’t care. He doesn’t. Andrew Minyard hasn’t felt a thing in years aside from a slow-killing boredom and the swiping anger he learnt to corral at his own risks.

It’s useless.

Andrew isn’t a liar, but he thinks he might be starting to learn how to fool himself.

It’s a dangerous thought. He stubs out his cigarette on the dirty concrete next to his leg and lights up a new one, craving smoke like air and the distraction holding a burning stick close to his skin provides.

Smoking is a slow poison, too. Andrew stopped bringing blades to his skin, but he hasn’t stopped trying to accelerate the rhythm of nature. Maybe it’s time people start understanding this, instead of going out of their way to—to do things _for_ him.

He’s angry. There is no denying it. He won’t yell at Neil, because it’s not his way, but he’s glad that the stupid man isn’t next to him. Andrew would want to ignore him, but Neil isn’t to one to be pushed to the sidelines: he fidgets and meddles until he’s carved his place at the forefront of Andrew’s thoughts.

The second cigarette goes out much like the first one. This time, it’s half-smoked—a waste, Andrew reflects distantly.

He stole Neil’s packet. There is no satisfaction in knowing this: it only serves to remind him (as if he could forget!) of how close Neil burrowed himself in Andrew’s life, and how Andrew himself allowed it, wanted it.

He’s finishing the third cigarette when the door opens loudly behind him. Neil keeps jiggling it in an infuriatingly unsubtle way, for all discreet he usually is. The delicacy of the broken lock eludes him still. Andrew catches himself before he can think, _he’ll get it eventually_.

Neil sits next to him silently, always a study in contrasts. He extends his legs in front him until he’s sitting right on the edge, mimicking Andrew, except that he swings his feet slightly where Andrew forces them immobile.

Neil’s foot starts rebounding from the façade of the building, jumping in the air from the impetus. Andrew exhales smoke and grips his cigarette to prevent his arm from laying on Neil’s thigh, forcing it still.

“You’re mad,” Neil says after a while.

Andrew glances at him from the corner of his eye. Neil’s kept silent longer that he thought.

“Your big mouth has caused you enough trouble as it is,” Andrew says after a while. His voice is slightly hoarse from hours of introspective silence.

It used to happen a lot: before Neil came around, and when the drugs didn’t loosen his tongue, he never really had anyone worth talking to.

He still doesn’t, he thinks viciously as Neil opens his mouth.

“I’m not sorry.”

Andrew doesn’t believe in regret or excuses.

“I don’t want you to be.”

Predictable, like the tide: “What _do_ you want?”

“Nothing.” The usual retort.

Neil’s eyes are boring holes in the side of Andrew’s head. If it’s the price for his silence, Andrew will pay it: he’s had steeper prices.

The sun sets on their right, setting Neil’s hair ablaze. Its auburn tint is often closer to brown under dim lights, but here in the open it seems to glow with every hue from red to orange and back. Andrew’s fingers itch to touch it. He represses the urge the same way he represses every urge that drive him at inconvenient times. It’s a stone diving into the cool reflective surface of a lake, though, and Andrew feels the ricochets through his core.

Andrew examines the truth, digs it out of himself and holds it to the unforgiving light of his own brand of honesty: he wants Neil more than he hates him. It stays true through his anger.

“Proust was mine to deal with,” Andrew says, forcing the name out so Neil will understand his serious mood.

“I wanted him dead too,” Neil says.

What an idiot. Andrew reaches out and grasp Neil’s neck; not the firm hold he uses to help him stabilize his mental footing when he’s tottering too close to the edge, but not the unforgiving grasp he used on Kevin either. His fingers brush the skin for a second before he can find Neil’s pulse, almost a caress. It’s something else. Affection, maybe, Bee would say.

“You don’t have that right,” he says.

Can’t Neil realize the patience he’s displayed in accepting to have that conversation at all? The moment is a tenuous one, the both of them standing on a thin line: one step can make or unmake them. If Neil cannot hear him—

Andrew doesn’t make threats, only promises. He doesn’t finish the thought.

Neil’s hand hovers over Andrew’s wrist; after a brief nod, he curls it around the warm fabric of the armband and brushes his thumb over Andrew’s palm.

Andrew very consciously doesn’t squeeze or loosen his hold on his neck.

“He hurt you,” Neil says. “I know you don’t want me fighting your battles. I won’t. But I won’t see you suffer anymore because of him.”

“Don’t,” Andrew warns, but Neil goes on:

“He didn’t deserve to live, and you don’t deserve to go to jail for killing him. Besides, he was working for Riko. It was only a matter of time before Ichirou found him. It’s bloody, reshaping an empire,” Neil adds. The words sound foreign in his mouth, oddly solemn and almost playful. “My uncle told me that. He’s right.”

Andrew doesn’t answer, but his next exhale is deep and long, like blowing smoke through his nose. He lifts his hand from Neil’s neck, noticing the lack of marks. Neil catches his hand when Andrew slides it away, turning his wrist so their fingers meet. There is a quiet challenge in Neil’s eyes: the promise of tenderness, if only Andrew lets him.

Neil would leave, if Andrew asked him to. But he will fight, too. That promise is written on his face, in his words, in the loose grip of his hand in Andrew’s.

Andrew lets him. They rest their hands on the roof between them, next to a small clump of ashes that the wind dislodges. Andrew doesn’t need to turn to picture the fiery fire of Neil’s hair in the last rays of the sunsets, but he still does. 

Neil is already looking at him, as always.

It’s terrifying and infuriating, being known. Andrew takes a breath and kisses Neil anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over at [jsteneil](http://jsteneil.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Thanks for reading!


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